The Big Lebowski
Who is a detective? He who is shat on by The Eagles. The foundation palms the answer in the sap, “he treats objects like women” is a drugged asseveration by Marlowe in the rough, “what the fuck does Vietnam have to do with anything” a vexed question after seaside obsequies direct from Life Stinks.
The missing heiress is a sporting lass on a jaunt to Palm Springs under her own power, where she loses the tip of her little toe, or nearly. She has friends in Palm Springs.
The detective walks away from the case, the empty case, the million that never passed under his hands, with nothing, not even his car. Only the sad admiration of his coevals, cheered somehow by his indomitable nonexistence, testifies to a purpose in his life, the ratiocination of surds, the dogged witness to a bare tree, in a class or out of it with the one and only gen-u-ine Moses Wine.
The grande dame of Hollywood does yoga in bed to improve the odds of conception maculate or otherwise. Lebowski does a spit take at this as though turned to stone and planted in a park. Tapped out by a long drink, he dreams a musical, he his own bowling ball down an alley of pin girls to red dwarfs with giant scissors.
“This one is enough for you?” The Branded writer in an iron lung has seen it all go out of the corner of his eye to Spielberg’s matinee munchkin, but that is an illusion, a will-o’-the-wisp, Russell’s Poof Laddie.
Foreign assassins beset the heroic dogsbody, but it’s all a misunderstanding, not that they care. They flee in a fight but leave a casualty on the other side, fallen from fright.
Where is the constabulary in all this folie des grandeurs? Assessing the tonnage of the bathtub flotilla.